


Desperation

by WildnessBecomesYou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i had an idea watching an episode of gossip girl and it wouldn't let go, i somehow go the entirety of this without saying their names, if even that?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 03:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20108644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: A tiny (t i n y) study of a moment of desperation from Crowley.(Aziraphale is there to help, of course.)





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> These poor poor boys, why did I do this to them

It is a strange thing to find someone kneeling before you in desperation. 

You hold them close to you, one hand in their hair, one arm holding them taut against your shins and knees, and you look to the ceiling instead of at their tears. You listen to the sounds of muffled screams. You ignore the way their body tenses with every noisy exhale, shakes and shudders around every inhale. You ignore the way your trousers grow wet with the salt of their tears, crumple beneath their fingers. 

“Why?” 

You can’t answer the question. You can’t answer the grief in their serpentine eyes, but you feel it.

You feel helpless, because you can do nothing for it. 

“I don’t know, my love.” 

You pull their head down again, rest their forehead against your knees, and bend over them this time. 

“I don’t know.” 

While you try to prevent tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, they sob into your lap. You bury your nose in their hair, smelling leather and apple and myrrh. You close your eyes and sigh when the tears come. 

“Angel, it’s not fair,” they whimper, and you press a kiss to their skull through thick locks of hair. 

“I know it isn’t. I know.” 

Your voice shakes. Their breath shakes. You shake together, and their hands grow wild and desperate. 

Somehow, you end up on the floor, their legs over your lap, their arms around your shoulders, their face buried against your jaw. It doesn’t matter who’s crying anymore. 

It doesn’t matter when you each stop, because the two of you are immortal. It doesn’t matter how you end up in bed, wrapped around each other, fingers in feathers and noses against each other’s. How you breathe into each other until brass players who practice circular breathing are jealous. 

“I love you,” you tell them, and you don’t mind that they can’t answer right now. It wouldn’t be fair to ask them to. But you need to tell them anyways, so they know. 

“I love you.”

And they take it. They drink it in greedily, desperately. 

You have all the time in the world to wait; you are immortal, and things are unfair, and desperation is familiar, but it will pass.


End file.
